


Romantic

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for my match-up challenge. Good Omens matched with "A brisk morning walk through the forest in autumn."</p><p>Crowley and Aziraphale taking a walk in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romantic

“Romantic.” The angel had said. “It will be  _romantic_.” Crowley had given up on attempting to convince Aziraphale that neither of them particularly  _needed_  romancing after all these years, because the implication that Aziraphale didn't need romancing had somewhat ruffled his feathers.

Figuratively, anyway. His actual feathers had remained as charming as ever, but Crowley had not been permitted to run his fingers through them until Aziraphale got irritated with the “no touching, no speaking” treatment, probably because he'd become unused to having to groom his wings himself, and trying to go back to it had ended up with Aziraphale pulling a muscle in his back and blaming Crowley for that as well.

“Angel, I think this would be more romantic if you didn't  _walk_  so fast.” Crowley says, and he catches the other man's firmly wool-gloved hand, pulling him back. He quiets the other's immediate wish to complain, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's body and dragging his lips over the back of his neck.

Aziraphale walks so terribly  _briskly._ Crowley, as a whole, is a  _saunterer_  – he saunters almost always, and is unwilling to speed if unnecessary. Aziraphale's walk, however, is born of being  _accustomed_  to it.

And Crowley is quite willing to teach him to  _enjoy_.

Aziraphale had been feeling the cold, and subsequently he'd hunched his shoulders to huddle in his jacket, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked quickly. Crowley had lumbered behind him for just a little while, but now he's impatient.

He hooks his hands in the other man's pockets, and he puts his sunglasses on Aziraphale's head instead of on his face, curling his body around the other man's.

“It would be more romantic if it weren't so very  _cold._ ” Aziraphale says crisply, and Crowley curls around his body, hanging from his lips and looking up at him with a delighted little grin.

“I could keep you warm.” Crowley purrs, a forked tongue slithered from his lips. Aziraphale regards him unimpressedly, and drops him, without ceremony, on the ground.

Crowley is betrayed.

He lies on his back on the blanket of orange leaves and presses his lips together, staring up at the other man in his ridiculous jumper and his obscenely absurd scarf. Aziraphale's expression twists into an amused smile and Crowley feels the need to be a little less  _nice._

Because Crowley might be, grudgingly, something of a good person these days. But he's not  _Good._

He hooks his foot around Aziraphale's ankle and pulls his feet out from under him. Aziraphale falls back, lands on his backside, with a loud, satisfying but ultimately terrifying  _splash._ Crowley has just dropped the angel in a puddle. His snake eyes dilate, and he stares at Aziraphale's face, unable to move.

A few moments pass, and then Aziraphale begins to laugh; the tension melts out of Crowley's form, but rapidly returns when Aziraphale grabs him by the shirt and pulls him forwards, flipping them and landing Crowley on his back in the puddle instead.

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale says, his plump hand flat on Crowley's chest, holding him down. “We're all wet. We'll just have to walk  _fast_  back home, and have a bath together.”

“Romantic.” Crowley comments, voice more high-pitched than he'd like due to the wet, filthy water soaked into his jeans and his jacket.

“Yes. Yes, I rather thought so.” Aziraphale murmurs, and then he relents and says, “The walk was not a good idea as I had initially thought.”

“You don't like walking, angel.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale mutters, and he helps Crowley up.

“You know what you  _do_ like, though?” Crowley asks, and he smiles at the other man.

“What do I like?” Aziraphale asks dryly, and Crowley beams at him.

“The Dante misprinted  _original_  waiting in a parcel for you on the kitchen table.” Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the collar again and mashes their lips together, kisses Crowley forcefully, bites at his lips; when he draws away Crowley is dizzy with it, and he sways momentarily.

“I don't want to walk home. Let's run.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley chuckles.

They get home, of course, in record time: through careful effort, perseverance and intimate knowledge of how to keep a pet angel, Crowley  _even_  manages to coax Aziraphale into the bath before he opens the parcel.

Aziraphale lasts only eleven minutes in the steaming, bubbly water, but that long is definitely an achievement on Crowley's part.

Worth it, certainly.  


End file.
